Before I Go
by Pough
Summary: Terribly distressed by the imminent loss of Ziva David, and very much hoping she doesn't get killed off like all the other women on the show (Grrrr!), I decided to write what I would like to see happen on her final episode, where I would like to see her go. This will be two or three chapters long, that's it. They need a proper goodbye.
1. Chapter 1

"If that's what you want," Leon said.

"It is what I want," Ziva responded.

He could see the reticence in her eyes, and the resolve. He was absolutely positive this decision was much more complicated than she had made it sound. Things with the David's were never simple. So, he offered his hand to her, and she took it. Offered good luck, and that too she took. Almost offered her more, something that spoke of their years together, on his side of the ocean and hers. Something that acknowledged the deaths that ran between them like a river. But this was the Director's office, and any room that required a SCIF precluded congenial hugs.

She turned to leave, and had made it to his door before she heard, "Officer David," and then a more gentle, "Ziva." She took a deep breath and turned back to face Director Vance. He grappled with his next words, probably his emotions, too, she would have bet. But his focus was clear, and clearly on his friend, not his subordinate, and he said, "You will always have a home here."

She clenched her jaw, smiled and nodded. And then she was out the door before she let honesty get in the way of a clean resignation.

This was not her home, even though she had tried to make it home for years. Jenny Shepard had offered her this home eight years ago; whenever she went on a mission, Abby always made sure Ziva came home to them; McGee listed Ziva as part of his family on Facebook; Gibbs had even created a universe that included Ziva in his home; Tony had asked her to… Well. Everyone, it seemed, considered Ziva part of their home.

The problem, of course, was the considerable lack of a home Ziva had created. Rather than be connected to many homes, all for which she was quite grateful, Ziva wanted one home. One. A center of her world.

The irony, of course, was that she had chosen America over Israel and NCIS over Mossad so that she could make a home for herself. Something permanent. Something of her own. But one was sold, one was burned down, and one never felt right.

Left alone in the US, by her own choice, she knew, but alone, nonetheless, Ziva often looked at the one remaining part of her past—a small Israeli flag her father had placed on her desk. More than placed it, her abba had planted the flag in front of her, and had as much declared that it and all who beheld it belonged still to Israel, and to him. She knew that. That one small flag, bought at a tourist booth, no doubt, was the sliver under her skin that she could never excise. It made her fiercely, and in some ways disingenuously, love her new country all the more.

But with the gravitational pull gone since the passing of her father, Ziva felt adrift. No more connections to Israel, no more family, no more enemies to be taken care of. This central focus of her life- avenging this wrong, making that right- had simply dissipated once Ilan Bodnar was dead.

She had left Mossad to be a liaison to NCIS; she had given up her citizenship to spite Mossad. Without the emotional fuel that drove that type of conviction, things fell apart.

Walking down the steps from the Director's office, Ziva concentrated on breathing. On keeping her hands from shaking. On not looking them in the eye, because she could feel their eyes on her, boring into her. There seemed to be a vacuum of air and sound the closer she got to the bullpen, and her heart began to race.

It was unmerciful, truly, the way they expected her to speak first. The way they silently followed her with their eyes as she walked from the steps to her desk. The way they waited as she sat and smoothed down her shirt.

The way they waited. Relentlessly, and silently.

_What happened to the plan?_ Tony wanted to ask, and he would ask her that, as soon as she explained why her talk with the Director had taken half an hour. Unlike when he and McGee had returned to their desks, Ziva hadn't stored her gun and badge in her top drawer, because she had returned to her desk without them.

But he would wait. Just like Gibbs was waiting, with his hands bound so effortlessly on top of his desk, his spine a hickory broom handle. Yes, Tony would wait, because McGee was waiting, but Tony was sure Tim was just waiting out of confusion, not the type of waiting Tony and Gibbs were participating in. Theirs was interrogative waiting. Theirs was careful insouciant waiting, even if his stomach roiled and he had the feeling that his life was about to come tumbling down.

_What happened to the plan?_ Tony needed to know. And, of course, the answer was the same as it had always been—Ziva had a different plan. So, he waited to hear this new plan. He thought maybe he should call his bookie, lay money on the odds that this new plan didn't include him. More than likely, they'd be pretty even odds, and he wouldn't win much, but he ought to get something out of the deal, since he was about to lose so much.

"I have decided," she began, and Tony, in that infinitesimal moment between her last and her next word, silently supplied his version of her decision, "to leave NCIS." Which were not the words Tony had hoped for, but they were the words he knew were coming.

"Wait. What?" Tim was the first to say. _Poor bastard_, Tony thought. _You broke rule number one—let the suspect do all the talking_. And then he added, _but thanks for asking_.

"Since my father died, and…and since the events that came after his death, I have been considering what my future holds," Ziva said, gesticulating as if she were trying to capture the words in her hands. "I do not believe, unfortunately, that NCIS is part of my future."

"Then what is?" Tim asked, saving Gibbs and Tony the effort.

Ziva glanced at him, unable to make eye contact just yet. "I have been offered a position with the FBI." That aroused a reaction from Gibbs, a narrowing of the eyes, a rolling of the shoulders. Ziva held up one finger, and went on, "But I did not accept the offer." Which seemed to appease Gibbs.

"Okay, well," Tim continued, looking from Gibbs to Tony, imploring them to help him out, "where are you going?"

She pressed her hand to the top of her desk, spread out her fingers, and breathed. Here was the worst of it, and she did not wish to bring any more pain to them. "I am moving to Miami."

"Schmiel."

Of course, Gibbs would make the connection, Ziva thought. "Yes," she said, and dared to lock eyes for a moment with him. "Yes, I am moving to Miami to be closer to Schmiel. He is getting older, and his health is…" Any more would be gratuitous, she thought, so she closed down the descriptors, and simply added, "It is something I need to do."

His cheeks burning with indignation and something akin to betrayal, Tony said, "Maybe you'll get to hook up with ol' CIA-Ray's family, too."

Ziva gritted her teeth and glared at him. "Perhaps, I will."

"Of course," he said, rounding his desk to lean against it, his arms crossed over his chest, "they may still hold a grudge, what, with you having assured his arrest."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs warned.

"That was unfair. I shouldn't have brought up the past," Tony said, never taking his eyes off Ziva, who returned the favor, with added bitterness. "So, Schmiel's not the man of steel, after all."

Bolting to her feet, Ziva began throwing items into her backpack. "We are finished."

"Tell me something I don't know," he jabbed.

Gibbs was in his face before Tony even knew he had risen from his desk. "Something you need to tell me, DiNozzo?"

"No," they both said, taking the time to punctuate their words with withering stares.

"Then knock it off!" warned Gibbs, inches from Tony's face.

"Got it, Boss," Tony said, without his focus ever slipping from Ziva. "Sorry about that, Boss."

Tim, stunned by Ziva's announcement and the heated exchange, stumbled toward her side of the room. "When did all this happen? What are you gonna do down there? Does Abby know?"

Ziva yanked her attention from Tony, took a moment to soften her features, and said, "It is something I have been considering for a long while, McGee. As for what I will be doing once I am in Miami, I do not know. Not yet. But, I am sure something will come my way."

"And Abby? Have you told Abby?" Tim asked.

She searched his somber eyes for a way to lessen the pain, but his pain was far too expansive. Ziva knew she should somehow apologize for that. So, she reached out, tentative at first, and placed her hand on his chest. "No, not yet." 

"This is gonna break her heart, you know that," Tim said, covering her hand with his.

Ziva tilted her head, the weight of her own sorrow becoming heavy and cumbersome. "I know," she whispered.

Tony opened his mouth to speak, but Gibbs bore down on him, all blue-eyed fury.

"And Ducky?" Tim asked, releasing her hand. "What about Ducky? And Jimmy?"

Here was the next bit of pain she would bring to the room, so she diverted her attention away from Tim and to her desk, hoping somehow her answer might go unheard. Rifling through her drawers and finding that she had few personal items to speak of, Ziva cleared her throat, and said, "Jimmy does not know, but I will tell him as soon as I speak with Abby. As for Ducky," she said, and Gibbs turned to hear her reply, which made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. "As for Ducky, he and I have had a few…private conversations leading to my decision." She felt her eyes begin to well up, so she shrugged and gave Gibbs the respect of looking at him when she explained the rest. "I needed to talk to someone impartial. I needed to talk to someone who…who would not make me want to stay. Because there is a part of me, a large part of me, that is afraid to leave, and if I didn't talk to…the right person, I would have never found the courage to come to my decision. Excuse me," she said, whisking past Tim, her hand pressed to her quavering lips.

Ziva was inside the elevator, punching the down button, when Gibbs popped in, and the doors slid shut. She stepped back, and he stepped forward. He hit the emergency toggle, and the compartment jolted to a stop. She felt like a caged animal, dizzy with the anticipation of a fight. Her eyes went wide, and she grasped hold of the railing behind her. She braced herself for his anger, his acrimony, his spitting judgment.

She had not prepared herself for his hands on her face. For the compassion in his eyes. For the way he stroked her cheek with his thumb.

Soon, the tears came. Gibbs kissed her hair and pulled her into his embrace, where she cried, and where she clung to him. And where she was embarrassed to admit she needed to be.

He held her and stroked her back, rocked her from side to side, a vestige of his fatherhood. She begged his forgiveness, and he dissuaded her need for it.

She clung to him, shook her head, and whispered, "I do not want to go, but I must. Please tell me you understand. I cannot leave if you do not understand. Please. I cannot lose you, too."

"You will never lose me," he whispered back, kissing her ear. "And I do understand."

It should have been a relief, hearing his words. But something in them, perhaps the emancipation they brought, also brought the pain of separation.

She wondered if she would ever be able to stand without shaking again.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Thank you all for your kind words. This is just something I wanted to get out of my system before the new season begins and before my school year starts. I guess I had no idea I was THAT upset about Cote de Pablo leaving until I started to write this. Baaaaaaaah! Let's just get it out there—this is gratuitous angst. Pure and simple.

A grown woman should not be so caught up in a television show.

Big warning—Although this chapter is about friendship, the next is definitely a Tiva story, so if Tiva ain't yer thang, walk away now.

Don't own them. Wouldn't mind a share or two, if only on syndication rights, but other than that…

**Part II**

Ziva could feel the beat almost before she could hear it. An insistent boom, boom, boom, something in the substrata of sound. She placed her hand on the silver door, and it vibrated.

And there she was, all swinging ponytails and white lab coat. A million dollars worth of equipment at her fingertips, and all of it safe. This is how Ziva would always remember Abby, and she took comfort in the fact that soon enough, this is the world that Abby would return to. The fact was that many tragedies had come and gone over the years, and Abby had survived them all. Some took longer for her to recover from, but she had recovered, and she would recover from this, Ziva felt sure.

Still, what she wouldn't give to remain outside the door, silently witnessing the grace and brilliance of her friend's work. What she wouldn't give to be able to walk away.

But, when she turned to gather evidence from her table, Abby found Ziva in the window, and she smiled and beckoned her in. Ziva took a deep breath and pushed open the door. A wall of sound cascaded over her.

Accessing the remote to turn down the music, Abby began to yell over the music, "This is my new favorite band! Cemetary Girlz! We'll have to," she yelled, just as the music leveled off to a dull roar, "go see them when they come to town."

Ziva nodded, but knew it was a plan that would more than likely not come to pass. "Abby, do you have a minute?"

Abby was about to give her perfunctory, cheery answer, but something in Ziva's eyes told her that this would not be a cheery conversation. Something in the tightness of her features, the way she rigidly held her shoulders, the slight shake in her hands, screamed danger to Abby. "Who's dead?"

Ziva blinked. "What? No, no one is dead."

"Okay, then hurt? Is it Gibbs? Tim? It's Ducky, isn't it?"

"No, no," Ziva said, reaching out for Abby, coming short of actually grasping hold her of her hand. "They are all fine."

Abby scanned Ziva's face. Stepped back. Squinted, and searched those dark eyes some more. "Something's wrong."

Ziva sighed, knowing that the postponement of such news would not lessen the bite. "Nothing is…wrong, Abby. It's just…I have decided to leave." She had hoped having said the words three times in the last hour would have taken the rawness from them. She was wrong, and when her nose began to sting and her throat began to tighten, she turned away. She shook her head, perhaps to mask the shaking in her body, perhaps to give her mind the time to find the next words.

"What do you mean you're leaving? For the day? That's what you mean, right, for the day," Abby said, placing words in Ziva's mouth. "Tell me that's what you mean!"

Ziva flinched, and something primal in her took over. She glared at Abby, ready to bark back, when she realized this was not the time. Ziva smoothed the skin across her burning forehead, took a deep breath, and centered herself. "Abby, please—"

"No! I'm sick of this!" Abby cried, throwing her hands in the air. "Just when everything's back to normal, just when I think I can breathe again, something like this always happens!"

"Abby," Ziva tried, hoping if she kept her voice even, it would ameliorate Abby's reaction, "if you would—"

"What? If I would what?!" Abby demanded, gesticulating a little too wildly for Ziva's comfort. "Calm down? Tell you it's okay that you're about to kill me, 'cause that's what you're gonna do, aren't you? Kill me?"

"I have no plans to kill you, Abby," Ziva said. "Not today."

Abby snatched the remote off the lab table, maxed out the volume on her music, and spun away from Ziva. Stunned, hurt that Abby, of all people, would not even listen to what she needed to say, Ziva made a clumsy attempt to leave the room.

"Stay right there!" Abby roared, pointing at Ziva, refusing to face her. And Ziva did as she was told. The music beat down on her, assaulted not just her ears but her viscera. For a full minute, then two, the women stood apart, while anger and sadness teeter-tottered in both their hearts. Just as Ziva was about to demand the music be turned down, Abby walked to her iPod and pressed stop. She did not turn to face Ziva, but when she spoke again, her voice was calm, tinged with sorrow. "Just…just tell me this: Are you leaving or going?"

Rifling through her memory for the exact meaning of the two words, Ziva stood nonplussed. "I am not…sure…what…"

"Leaving is bad; going is good," Abby assisted. And when she turned, the message in her eyes was one of mournful acceptance. "Leaving means there's nothing here for you. Going means there's something out there, something wonderful that's waiting for you. Ziva," she said, approaching her shaken friend, grasping hold of her hand, "are you leaving, or going?"

Undone once again, Ziva scrubbed away a rogue tear, and said, "I do not know. Both, I suppose. Maybe both. I would like to think I am going, but I do not know."

Abby frowned, more upset by her friend's deep emptiness, rather than her own loss. "You know we're all here for you, and you are part of us, right?"

No words would come, so Ziva simply nodded. Ran a hand under her nose. Who knew Abby would be the rock, she thought. But, of course she always had been.

"Okay, then," Abby whispered, and when she tried to smile, a tear crested and trailed across her cheek. "So, it's settled. You're going. To some amazing adventure."

Ziva nodded again, and sniffed. "Yes, I am going."

"But not far, right?" Abby asked, grabbing Ziva's other hand, which Ziva willingly gave.

Ziva pulsed the connection of their conjoined hands, and said, "No, not far."

"Will I be able to get to you within a couple hours if you need me?" Abby asked, prompting the answer she sought with the bobbing of her head.

Ziva smiled, and felt yet again the stranglehold on her voice. Her chin quivered, and when she could speak, her voice was something like a cry, "Yes. Only a few hours."

"Okay," Abby said, dabbing Ziva's tears with a silk hanky she had produced from her inner pocket, "so no oceans are involved, and no continents."

Ziva giggled, a thing she thought she might never do again, and said, "Same ocean, and same continent. Miami."

Abby smiled, and tucked the hanky in Ziva's hand. "That's not so far."

"No, not so far." Ziva held the silk in her fist, and pressed it to her heart. "And you will come visit me, yes?"

It was Abby's turn to lose her voice, and so she nodded, and pulled Ziva into a hug. Ziva crushed shut her eyes, and pressed close to Abby. No one could have ever replaced Tali, nor had Ziva ever sought out a replacement. But Abby was as close to a sister as she had ever known, and so she held her, and whispered her love to her, and her thanks.

When they did end their embrace, Abby smoothed back Ziva's hair, and smiled. "I'm gonna miss you so much, Ziva."

Ziva smiled too, an exact duplicate of Abby's sorrow-filled smile. "I will miss you, too, my friend."

"We'll Facetime, and talk on the phone," Abby told her, nodding. "It'll be like you never left."

"That is right," Ziva agreed, fully aware of the rationalization they were both relying on. She wiped away her tears, and smiled again. Took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"But, you have to promise me," Abby said, "that if you ever, I mean ever, need me, or any of us, you'll pick up that phone."

Ziva understood the context. Abby's mandate spoke of familial rights, and of the need for best friends, something still so new in Ziva's life. The acknowledgment that she loved having people to call, warmed Ziva, and she said, "I will. And you will call me. Because I will want to hear it all."

"Absolutely all of it," Abby said, grinning. "Who knows? Maybe the Cemetary Girlz will have a gig down in Florida. I'd totally come down for that."

"I shall keep my ears open," Ziva said. "It should not be hard to hear them."

They laughed, and smiled, and sighed. Ziva nodded and squeezed Abby's hand. Abby pointed to her own heart. Ziva turned to leave, tired yet at peace.

Just as she stepped across the threshold of the lab door, Ziva heard the music begin again. She glanced over her shoulder to find Abby at her computer, her hands at either side of the keyboard. It was a good show, Ziva thought, but the bend of Abby's head broadcast her truer emotions.

The silver door slid shut, and Ziva whispered, "Goodbye."


	3. Chapter 3

Two more days. That's it. We have two more days, and then begins Ziva's exit. Thought I had better finish it before then. Thank you all for your kind words, your encouragement, and your support. I hope you enjoy this final chapter.

**NCISNCISNCISNCISNCISNCISNCISNCIS**

Ziva had thought it was a bad idea, unnecessary and uncomfortable, to meet her friends at the bar following work. It had been her hope to say her goodbyes in the office, make a clean break, and get on with things. Meeting for drinks felt like tapering, and Ziva was a proponent for decisiveness, not the killing of dead farm animals, which still made no sense.

Even so, it had turned out to be a lovely evening. Ducky had picked up the tab for the entire party—"Mother left me a tidy sum of money, and there are only so many antique cars one can buy." Even Gibbs had stopped by to throw back a jigger of bourbon, saying, "I've always liked a woman who can hold her liquor." Jimmy and his bride offered places to visit while in Florida, and McGee just kept hugging Ziva. Certainly the multiple and clandestine refills of his beer fueled such demonstrations of his affection, but Ziva welcomed them, nonetheless.

She tried to brush off the disappointment that Tony had not bothered to show up. Probably easier that way, she rationalized. Yes, his words had hurt, but Ziva knew him well enough to know that he often transmuted his pain to anger. She'd taken part in the same kind of emotional alchemy herself a time or two. Still, for one night, could he have not put aside his childish behavior to at least say goodbye? Could she not expect that from him, of all people?

In the end, it didn't matter, she supposed. They had ended their relationship months earlier, or what served as a relationship in their impossible worlds. Too complicated, too many questions. It was better this way.

And so, limbs numb from liquor, yet nerves thrumming with emotion, Ziva offered her final goodbyes and left the gathering to walk home. Once outside, in the warm evening, Ziva dared one last look at her friends, still gathered around a table inside the bar. It was good that they should have each other at a time like this, she thought. The loss of a friend, even as minor as one who moves away, is something to be mourned, and they would need each other, she supposed.

As for her, it was time to move on. Every five or six years, she had decided, it was important to move away, start fresh. This business of permanence was a lark, something people who had it longed to escape. If only, they said, if only I wasn't tied down to this house, or this job, or this marriage… If only.

There it was. She was lucky, she concluded. Lucky that she could just pick up at a moments—

"It's not safe for a pretty woman like you to walk these streets at night."

Of course he is here, she thought. Ziva stopped, glanced over her shoulder, and said, "I like my chances," and then continued walking.

"I'm not worried about you," Tony called back. "I'm worried about the poor schmuck who decides to engage you in conversation."

Maintaining her brisk pace, Ziva said, "Then perhaps you should remain five paces back."

With a laugh, Tony caught up, rounded in front of her, and stopped. Ziva came to a halt, as well, lest she make any unwanted contact. She glared at him, and he thrust out his hand to her.

"Here," he said. "The Miami sun's a lot hotter than in DC. Be good to your skin, and it will be good to you."

In his hand, a bottle of sunblock, cinched with a smart, red bow. "I know something about the sun. After all, I am an Israeli."

"Funny, I thought you were an American," he teased, appraising her through narrowed eyes.

Ziva refused to bite, but asked, "Is this your way of apologizing for being an ass earlier? 

"No," he said, "this is." From behind his back, Tony produced a pink beach pail, stuffed full of brightly colored sandcastle-making equipment, rolled up magazines, a floppy hat, and a bottle of water. "You always forget to bring magazines."

Much to her chagrin, Ziva could not help but smile. Still, she would not let him off the hook that easily. "What you said… That was very unkind."

"Yes, I know," Tony offered, setting his jaw, realizing the charade was over, faster than he had expected. "I am sorry, Ziva. Especially the crack I made about Schmiel. I like the old guy."

"And he likes you, too," Ziva said, swiping her foot over nothing in particular. A nervous habit.

"How is he?"

"He is…old, and he is frail," she said, clasping her hands in front of her. "He will most likely pass soon, or he will outlive us all. It is hard to tell."

"But you need to be with him," Tony added.

"Yes," Ziva said, answering back what she believed to be a challenge with her steady, dark eyes. "Yes, I do. He is all I have—"

"Which isn't true."

"And he should not die alone," Ziva continued, choosing to ignore Tony's comment.

"No one should die alone," Tony agreed.

Spinning wheels, Ziva thought. One of the many unspoken reasons she was leaving. Ziva shook her head, and skirted around Tony. "I have packing to do."

Turning to face her retreating form, Tony called out, "We're runners. You and me. Runners."

Ziva stopped. Tony held his breath. She turned, tossed her hands in the air, and said, "What?!"

"We run to danger; we run away from our lives," he said, sauntering toward her. "I thought we came to an agreement in Berlin to stop running."

"Tony," she began, exasperated by his relentless need to chain her to the past, "what happened in Berlin… I was…"

"I know what you were, I was there," he said, setting the pail down between them. "We made some decisions that night, and a few days—hell, a few hours later, everything changed. Next thing I knew, you were running."

"The only running I was doing was after Bodnar," she reminded Tony. "And, I caught him, you might remember."

"Yes, you did," he said.

"And he is dead, because of me."

"I know."

"If I were running, it was to finish what someone else had begun."

"I know."

"Someone had to stop Ilan."

"You always get your man."

"Yes, I do."

"Except for this one."

Her breath stopped; her limbs went cold. Mouth agape, she stared at him.

"Ziva," he said, "what happened to us?"

Words would not come to her, at least not the ones she needed him to hear. She dared not speak them herself.

"Ziva, talk to me."

"We are friends," she told him. "That is what we have always been, and always will be."

"We were more in Berlin—"

"Tony…"

"…and I can't figure out exactly what happened," he said, coiling his arms over his chest. "It had something to do with the car accident."

Ziva waved her hand between them, as if erasing the memory. "Enough. I have work to do."

He grabbed her hand before she could spin away, and whispered, "Stop running. For god's sake, Ziva, just stop."

Ziva stared at the meeting of their hands, and remembered their hands conjoined before the accident. A chill ran through her, and she shivered. Hardly able to find her voice, Ziva whispered back, "I am not running. I have packing to do."

He would not let go of her hand, desperate to keep Ziva with him. He clasped it in both his, and said, "I started running after my mom died. I slowed down when I met Wendy, but when she broke off our engagement, I took off again. I ran for years, from one woman to the next. Things would get too cozy, too real, time to start running again. Until you came along."

"What do you want from me?" she begged, emotionally exhausted by the day, the weeks, by a lifetime of chronic loss and sorrow.

"I want you to tell me what happened," he demanded, quick hand suddenly grasping her arms. "One minute we're in bed together—"

"Is that what this is about?" she asked, breaking free from his hold. "Is this your juvenile way of getting me in bed?"

"No!" he barked back. "And yes! But not just tonight! Every night, and every morning, for the rest of my life. That's what this is about!"

Ziva threw her head back and roared with laughter. "Dear god, Tony! If you are pitiful enough to ask me to marry, just so I'll go home with you, then you have truly begun to scrape the bottom of the bucket."

"It's barrel," he seethed, coming dangerously close to her. "And nobody said anything about marriage."

"Then what is it you want?" she challenged back, her steely focus shifting from eye to eye.

"I want you to tell me what the hell happened after Berlin," he said, daring her with his set jaw, his dark, brooding eyes. "You owe me that."

"I do not owe you anything." Spinning, Ziva pressed ahead.

"We were good back there," he told her, jogging to keep up with her quick pace. "We were right."

"I do not have time for this," she said, waving him off, a laser beam on the horizon.

"It was good and comfortable, and I'd give about anything to go back."

"We are friends; that is all. Accept it, and move on."

"And you can't convince me you didn't feel the same thing."

"Why is it you need more?"

"You're a good operative, but you're not that good."

"This is why I should have never…WE should never have done what we did in Berlin."

"You were finally opening up to me, letting me in, and I was happy."

"Things never end the way you expect them to."

"I was happy, Ziva, for the first time in as long as I can remember."

"Besides, I was in mourning. I cannot be held responsible for…"

"Because you were with me. And I was with you."

"People in my life—they do not stay. You will not stay."

"And don't try to tell me it was just sex. It was more than just sex."

"Those who are close to me die. Those who are my enemies die."

"Sure, it was good sex. Great sex, actually."

"That car accident. One minute, I was holding your hand. The next, I saw YOU. Bleeding..."

"And you and I both know you don't throw away good."

"And then Ilan… And when I got back to the car…"

"Now, I realize quoting Gibbs in the same breath as having sex with you is not my best move, but…"

"I called out your name—'Tony! Tony!' You did not move. And the blood…"

"Wait a minute. What?"

"And I kept calling out your name, but you would not wake up."

He grabbed her elbow, and she stopped walking. "I had a concussion."

"Your head slung down so low, I thought perhaps your neck was broken."

"I was unconscious." He moved in front of her, but she did not see him.

"I was afraid to touch you. Move you. I did not know what I should do."

"It's all right. Everything turned out fine."

"And then the paramedics and the fire department were there. They were asking me questions, but I could not speak. I could not breathe."

"You thought I was…?"

"Because I was sure you were dead."

Breathless, her heart a snare drum, Ziva halted. And faltered. When did her bones melt? When did her skull seem to perforate? She needed to sit down. Now. She stumbled to a set of brownstone steps and crumpled to a seat. Her shaking hand throttled the metal handrail.

Tony sidled in next to her, wrapped his arm across her shoulders, and drew her toward him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Her hand still glued to the rail, a desperate need to find some connection, some solidity while the rest of her world seemed to filter away, Ziva found her breath coming in short, syncopated bursts. "I cannot lose another, Tony."

"You could never lose me, Ziva."

"I will," she whispered. "If I stay, I will lose you, just as I have lost all I have loved."

And then she was breathing in the scent of his suit coat, and her hand was clinging to his tie, and her eyes were staring at a void, and her body was threatening to evaporate. It was only his hand smoothing her hair, his hand lips cooling her brow, his arm containing her sorrow that kept her from dissipating, atom-by-atom, into the moonlight.

"I cannot stay and watch you die."

"Oh, Ziva..."

"I cannot."

"Ziva," he said, beckoning her to meet his eye, "do you trust me? Hmmm?"

Until the first tear fell, one that betrayed her, Ziva could not speak. Before the second, she said, "Trust is not enough." And then a third.

"I agree, but trust with a whole lot of love, now that's a powerful force." He thumbed away her tears, and found the sight of her oscillating as well. "So, if you do trust me, and you do love me, nothing bad can happen. Not to me. Not to you. But if you leave me, Ziva, if you leave me…"

"Tony, please…"

"If you leave me," he began, but knew that if said what was true—that it would kill him if she left—that those words would be irresponsible to say. "If you leave me," he said, and scooted off his side of the step in order to kneel before her. "If you leave me, I will find you." His warm hands framed her lost expression, and she searched the strong depths of his eyes. "Wherever you go, my Ziva, I will search for you. You can't run from me, not anymore."

Feather-light fingers whispered over his lips; her warm palm cupped his cheek. "How can you love me?"

"How can I not?"

A bone-deep fatigue overcame her, and she surrendered to him. "I am so tired of running."

"Then, stop," he whispered, embracing her from his stoop. "Just stop. Be still with me. Give us a chance to be still together."

She spooled her arms around his neck and lay her weary head down. "Tony, I think maybe it is too late."

"Too late for what?"

She buried her eyes in the cool space where his pulse beat, and wept.

He kissed her then, gently, a kiss that did not ask for anything in return. He kissed her eyes and her hair. He drew her hand away from his hair and kissed her palm. He wrapped an arm around her, pulled her to her feet, and said, "I'll take you home."

The magazines went first. A pair of drunken college students took the pail and shovels. The hat was taken next. And when the sun came up, Tony's mea culpa was gone, and a DC-10 bound for Miami was about to taxi down the runway.

Three days later, Ziva watched the Atlantic surf rush over her feet, only to rush back to the sea. Hypnotic, cathartic, calming. The waves came in, and the waves went out, and Ziva's feet became more and more encased in sand. A permanence. She shielded her eyes and looked to the east. Clouds are clouds are clouds. The same clouds that graced the horizon had probably started over the western coast of Africa, driven by wind from, perhaps, as far away as Israel. And these same clouds might take a notion to travel up the coast, to bring rain to Hilton Head, Virginia Beach, Norfolk and D.C. Ziva smiled at that, and scrunched her toes deeper into the sand. The thought that the water swirling around her feet had circumnavigated the globe millions of times, and in a million combinations brought her an odd comfort. The continuity of it all.

"Well, I'm about done," he said. Ziva glanced over her shoulder and watched Tony loop his towel around his neck. "My father gave me his name and devilishly good looks. My mother gave me her West London skin tone. Think I'll go on in, get cleaned up, and make dinner for Schmiel." With that, he kissed her, and began to pad away.

"Tony," Ziva called out before he could get very far, and he turned. "Thank you."

Tony grinned, and Ziva blushed. "Anything for you, Sweet Cheeks."

One more thing, she thought. "Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Later, after we have dinner with Schmiel, I think I would like to go dancing."

One corner of Tony's lip curled up. He yanked the towel from his red neck, gave out an animated grimace, and roped it around Ziva. "Why, Miss David, this is Miami," he said, shimmying closer to her, leading her to him by her hips. "We can dance right here on the beach." He kissed her neck, salty and hot, and she let her hands find their way to his lower back. "My god, we were made to samba…"

Ziva giggled deep in her throat, and said, "If we continue this, we will be arrested for indecency."

Suddenly, he whirled her into a dip, kissed her hard, and said, "Then I'll just have to wait for the privacy of a dark, hot, sweaty dance club." Another kiss, lower on her neck, and then again lower, and then he twirled her back to her feet. "Besides," he said, throwing his towel over his shoulder again, "I got sand in places I don't want to think about. I may need you to use that special cream on me again tonight."

Ziva laughed, and Tony smiled. With one more kiss, he jogged away, leaving her by herself.

The waves came in; the waves went out. Tomorrow would come, and tomorrow would go. The sun would wheel across the sky, and the moon would follow. That's all she could be sure of. For now.

Oh, and one more thing.

The day had begun with Tony, and it would end with Tony. Tomorrow she'd wake up with him, and at night she'd fall asleep with him.

And that, she supposed, was enough.

The end.


End file.
